


Best of Days

by Mercurie



Category: Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Historical RPF, Original Work
Genre: Festivals, Gen, Identity Swap, Intrigue, Magic Realism, Politics, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:59:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercurie/pseuds/Mercurie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of Saturnalia, a plot to seize control of the Julio-Claudian succession makes Tiberius Caesar the gloomiest of men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best of Days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Makioka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makioka/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! This may be rather less realistic than requested, but once the idea came it was hard to shake. Hope you enjoy.

Sixteen days before the Kalends of January in the 777th year after the founding of Rome, a heavy gloom settled over the inhabitants of the princeps' house on the Palatine. The steady rain falling into the impluvium wasn't the worst of it, unpleasant as a downpour on a festival day might be. Nor did the additional work required of the princeps' slaves and freedmen worry them; after all, they had much to look forward to themselves in the next three days. No, above all it was Tiberius Caesar's doleful face that made the household staff shiver whenever he poked it, tortoise-like, out of his favorite tablinum. On each of these occasions he withdrew it after only a moment, retreating from the bustle that, anyone would admit, was hectic even by the standards of the imperial household. Oppressive it might be, but even that morose visage couldn't slow the frantic pace of work on the eve of Saturnalia.

Tiberius Caesar knew very well that he was a spoilsport. The sound of merry-making made his mouth pinch and the bitter lump perpetually lodged in the back of his throat swell until he reached for his wine—always unwatered these days—to soothe it. _Biberius Caldius Mero_ was becoming an ever more appropriate nickname. So unfortunately appropriate, in fact, that he'd told Epidicus not to place any wine in the tablinum today. He had resolved never again to drink on Saturnalia. The combination of the darkest days of the year and the grating cheer of the festival brought out a streak of self-pity in himself that he loathed and refused to indulge. Especially this year, when every hint of preparation reminded him that there was no one left to share jokes with (had Tiberius Caesar been the joking sort), no one to whom to send courtesy gifts (picked by his chamberlain), no siblings, no children, no lover, not even his estranged adulterous ex-wife, not even his histrionic, glory-hungry nephew and heir—

No clear heir at all, as a matter of fact. His only son, Drusus, and the nephew he'd adopted as his successor, Germanicus, had both died before him. That left him the choice of a 15-year-old grandchild of questionable paternity, a lame, stuttering nephew most famous for publishing radical books to the shame of his family and being the butt of all Rome's jokes, and his three great-nephews, the sons of Germanicus, who learned to loathe him more every day under their mother Agrippina's tutelage. Name any one of them as the heir and the others would descend on him with every method of assassination in the Roman arsenal. Not to mention that he disliked them all, though on his more honest days he could admit to himself that it was mostly because none of them were his own Drusus. None were fit to rule Rome; but then, neither was he, or anyone perhaps aside from Augustus himself. As the years had passed Tiberius had come to sympathize on a very personal level with Augustus' difficulties in choosing a successor. And with his obvious disappointment with the result.

He brushed off the problem of an heir before another brooding session could start and sat down to write. Normally he dictated, but Epidicus was preparing for the feasts with everyone else, and he didn't want company anyway. He squinted irritably at the scroll. The lines were not as neat as Epidicus'. He wrote: _enim sacrilegia contra divum Augustum maiestas sunt..._ , investing the words with the weighty dignity whose expression he had perfected over the years. The bust of Augustus that stood against the wall across from his desk watched with its habitual serene gaze, neither approving nor condemning. _The deified Augustus_ , whose majesty must be defended from those who would malign it. His back ached as if he'd hoisted a sack of bricks over his shoulder.

He avoided the courts these days for fear that his presence would influence the jurors, but gossip had spread about this particular case and he'd decided to sit in, discreetly of course, as he often had at the start of his rule. The case concerned an offense against the deified Augustus—a particularly slanderous pantomime—and when he had heard the witnesses he had become so indignant that he had to make his opinion known. But not there in the basilica; he had too much respect for the venerable legal institutions of the Republic to interfere. A general speech to the Senate would do, not naming any names, merely reminding everyone how much they owed to the deified Augustus. He rubbed his aching neck with one hand. The words _divum Augustum_ stood out on the parchment in his strong, spidery hand, black and permanent in the steady lamplight. Only a reminder, not a decree.

Someone scratched at the door. Tiberius did not answer, but stood up slowly, eyes lingering on the half-finished speech. When he opened the door, he found Epidicus with a candle.

"The feasts are prepared, domine," he said. "All the guests have arrived. They are only awaiting the princeps."

"All the masters here?" A gaggle of tedious respectable Claudians and those of his surviving extended family who didn't openly wish him dead, that was what he had to look forward to. He almost thought it might've been worthwhile to invite Agrippina—if he hadn't already banished her from his table—just to enliven the occasion. For after the feasts of the masters would come the feast of the slaves; masters and slaves would switch roles, the slaves reclining on couches drinking the finest wines, their masters serving them the most decadent dishes, and so would begin the absurdities and games that were to fill the next three days. Tiberius appreciated Saturn's festival in an abstract way (it would be impious not to), but in practice, it was a stiff and uncomfortable affair. No one would ever actually treat the princeps or any member of the senatorial class like a slave, even in jest. Every year he served the first dish at the slaves' feast and then retired, relieved to make an end of it.

"Domine?" Epidicus sounded apprehensive.

"What is it?"

The corner of the young man's mouth twitched nervously, but he spoke with no other sign of trepidation.

"Gaius Asinius Gallus is here."

" _Gaius Asinius Gallus_?" Tiberius forgot about wine and speeches and his aching back. His fingers dug into the doorframe. "Gaius Asinius Gallus? _Gaius Asinius Gallus_. Is this a joke? What fool invited him?"

Epidicus took a small step back. "I don't know, domine. Perhaps he came of his own accord?"

Sometimes, in particularly trying moments, it occurred to Tiberius that he could quite possibly find a reason to execute Gaius Asinius Gallus for treason, if he tried. Or anyone else, for that matter. There were a few whose absence could do Rome nothing but good... He always quashed such thoughts, but how did that cursed crowing cock dare to visit his house? All the hatred and bitterness he had dammed up over the years threatened to burst the bonds of his self-control at the sound of that name. It was Gallus who had taken his Vipsania from him, not only marrying her but claiming he had been the real father of Tiberius' son all along. Gallus had whispered to the world that the love of Tiberius' life had cared nothing for him, had cuckolded him, and had rejoiced when they had been forced to divorce.

He ought to call for Sejanus, his praetorian prefect, and have him do away with the problem. Sejanus always came up with a plan and the man had proved his dedication to his princeps time and again. Tiberius spoke through clenched teeth. "Where is he now?"

"In the dining room with the others, domine."

He could simply have Gallus thrown out—and ignite a scandal that would keep Rome entertained for months, the tasty melodrama of two sour old men whose rivalry, everyone knew, came down to nothing but a fight over a dead woman. A fight Gallus had won. He hated the man, but more than anything he yearned to forget about the past that lay between them. How often he had tried to drown in wine the memory of that terrible day when he'd had to tell Vipsania he was divorcing her. He had seen her only once after that day, by chance in the street; Augustus had made sure it never happened again. But for years he had brooded on the memories, brilliant clear images in his mind of Vipsania's sweet dimpled smile, her knack for epigrams, her long and lovely hands, the look on her face when she'd watched him with Drusus. Sometimes it felt as if he'd spend years imagining her in Gallus' bed, bearing Gallus' children, and hating him and everyone in the world for taking her away. He had devised whole books of ways Gallus could perish in coincidental and nasty ways.

But he could not have Gallus killed. He was the most powerful man in all the world, and he could not do this thing, not without abusing the power of the princeps and demeaning himself. It would make him a despot, and as poor a princeps as he had turned out to be, he had never yet fallen so far as to summarily execute someone for a personal vendetta. Yet even as he clung to that resolve, it embittered him. The list of things he could not do despite all his power seemed interminable; the harder he tried, the less he accomplished. He couldn't punish his most hated enemy. He couldn't keep his family alive. He couldn't please the Senate or the People; nor rule them; nor restore the Republic. If he commanded they called him tyrant, if he did nothing they called him hypocrite. He could not make anyone happy, least of all himself.

He looked at Epidicus and thought how much easier it must be to be a slave. One had only to obey; all the tasks expected of one were small and all the failures equally small. How easy, how simple.

"Give me that candle," he said, weary as dust beneath a legion's feet. He would leave it to Sejanus. Sejanus would find a way to get rid of his unwelcome visitor without causing a stir. For now, he had a duty to attend to at the feast.

But when he touched the brown wax, the flame flickered out, and so did the lamps, and the stars, and in the after-image of light still blinding him he fancied he was looking out of Epidicus' eyes at his own severe and unhappy face. Then he slept suddenly in darkness.

***

" _Io, Saturnalia!_

Tiberius awoke to the smell of smoke and the sound of distant, disharmonious singing. He lay on his back on damp stone, gazing up at a sky in which stars had begun to shine through the thinning clouds. The stars wavered and wheeled so quickly he thought he was watching the night pass; but when he sat up, the columns of the portico rocked just as severely, and he realized he was drunk. Drunk, bereft of memory, and utterly confounded as to how he had gotten into this state.

Dice rattled near his ears.

"Stronger stuff than you're used to, eh?"

Two men were sitting on the ground next to him. The one who had spoken grinned affably, holding a dice cup in his hand. As he tossed them, his companion shouted " _Alea iacta est!_ " and they both dissolved into laughter. The dice tumbled over and over until both came to a stop, each perfectly balanced on a corner. The two men stared and marvelled and then the more drunken of them proclaimed "Saturn dices with us!" ( _Io, Saturnalia_! someone shouted from across the courtyard.) "Improbable," Tiberius muttered, blinking. "Utterly improbable." But then, it was the night for improbable events. He had a premonition that many more odd things might occur before daylight.

He knew the men's faces, if not their names: they were two of the praetorian guards housed in the south wing. Sejanus had insisted on quartering praetorians in the house itself, for the princeps' protection, and after reading the report on attempted assassinations in the last six months, Tiberius had hastened to agree. If Tiberius recognized these two, they must surely know him on sight and know who he was. And yet they had left him here, lying on the cold ground like one of their drinking companions.

"Where is your commander?" he snapped. "Saturnalia is a time for license, but this—this— !" He staggered to his feet and reeled. The dice lost their precarious balance. "This is inexcusable."

The two soldiers whooped with glee. "Epidicus, Epidicus!" they cheered. "You should be an actor," said the dice thrower. "Go on, don't stop there! Give us your best impression of the old fart!"

"An _actor_? I am Tiberius Julius Caesar Augustus. Have you drunk so much you don't know your own Caesar?"

But they only howled and jumped up to slap his back like comrades in arms. Which no one had done, he reflected, since his Pannonian campaigns. One of them pushed a cup of wine into his hand—he recognized the vintage, his favorite Falernian, which he had instructed his slave not to set out that day. Apparently Epidicus had decided not to let it go to waste. No wonder the praetorians were in such good humor.

He drank without thinking and walked away as if in a dream, ignoring the calls of his would-be companions, the sound of the dice still rattling in his ears. For it was like a dream, the cool starlight sweeping away the rain clouds, the giddy rush of wine stronger than he had felt in years, the sudden power and haleness of his body. The friendly shouts of the soldiers, like a memory come to life. He found he didn't mind at all that they hadn't recognized him; and he'd never been jealous of his own dignity, only of his family's.

He wandered the Domus Tiberiana in a daze. It seemed that some hours had passed, but the house was still crowded with people who had spilled out of the dining room and the servants' quarters and the guards' barracks. People who greeted him but did not know him, not his staff or his relatives or the upper crust who had dutifully attended the princeps' notoriously dull banquet tonight as in the past. Lucius Aemilius Sejanus' eyes slid over him as if he was a stranger of no import. A Claudius Pulcher gave him a peck on the cheek and made off for more wine before he could do anything but sputter. And whenever he came across some member of his household, they giggled and hailed him as Epidicus. When he reached the entrance to the dining room, he knew why: for there stood Tiberius Caesar in the doorway, his own self, his own body clad in gay festival clothes and a freedman's cap, his own face uncharacteristically smiling, his own hands giving away gifts great and small to the household slaves. He stood, staring, ensnared in the surreal absurdity of the scene—did he really look like _that_?—until he saw the craggy old head, himself but not himself, turn toward him. Then he ducked out of view, afraid suddenly of what would happen if their eyes met.

He wasn't himself. Someone else was him. He wandered out of the northern fauces and down the candlelit steps of the Clivus Victoriae, dwelling on the smiling profile of Tiberius Caesar, on the soldiers calling him Epidicus. _The masters become the slaves and the slaves, masters._ That was Saturn's law for this day, Saturn's big joke, Saturn's reminder of his golden age on earth when all men were equal. He had become Epidicus and if he was not mistaken, Epidicus had jumped into the role of Tiberius Caesar with no compunction.

More fool him.

He had reached the Forum Romanum. The revellers were out, mostly poorer folk, but some wealthier ones from the Palatine on their way across the valley of the Forum to the Esquiline to visit their equally wealthy friends. Not a man among them paid any attention to him and he felt as if—well, as if he truly had reason to wear the freedman's cap tonight.

It was surely the doing of the god. Saturn had played this trick on him. Saturn had given him a gift. He was freed from the yoke of Caesar, and from age and obligation. During the ceremony that day the priests of Saturn had lifted the wool fetters from the feet of the statue in its temple, liberating the god for his festival (once a year only, for Saturn, like freedom, was dangerous). Now Saturn had liberated him. And he meant to make the most of it.

Jubilant, he shared a jar of wine with a group of passers-by. Perhaps it was the effect of his mood, but the wine tasted exactly like his favorite Falernian. The drinkers gave him a candle and he carried it as if it were the most precious thing he'd ever received. Strangers welcomed him who would have recoiled in fear had they known he was Caesar. He adjudicated a disputed game of knucklebones and heard a bad poet recite verses in honor of the holiday. He stopped to listen to a debate between two false sophists on the steps of Pompey's theater.

"Of course any philosopher worth an as acknowledges that the divus was a great man, but I ask you, how many more great men were there in the days of the Republic? When a tree stands too tall it casts shade all around and prevents anything else from growing."

"That's why the tallest trees need cutting, eh?"

"Any good gardener knows that plants need to be pruned now and then!"

"So you admit that democracy means bloodshed? Plants need pruning every year."

"What form of government doesn't mean bloodshed? The tallest tree kills the smaller ones all around."

"I'll tell you what kind: the rule of Bacchus. Replace the blood with wine, a happy solution for all..."

Then they fell on each other and stabbed one another with trick knives. Red liquid poured from the false wounds and the watchers cheered, catching it in cupped hands and clay mugs. It was only a satire, of course, but the wine was Falernian again, he was sure of it. Perhaps another jest of the god, to let all of Rome drink only the best on his festival night. He drank little this time.

He began to feel both weary and more awake as the warmth of the wine seeped out of his bones. He sat down in the square before the Temple of Venus Genetrix, the monument of the Julians. Julius Caesar had built it; Augustus had offered sacrifices here often, with Tiberius and the rest of the motley, mutually suspicious family honoring the founder of the first princeps' highest ambition: a dynasty to rule Rome. The square was nearly deserted at the moment, with only a single figure standing next to the statue of the deified Augustus, leaning against it with one hand. For once the casual insult incited no reaction in him; after all, what did the dignity of the dead Augustus matter to an Epidicus? Yet something about the tableau held his attention, and he watched with sharpening interest as the man straightened, stretched, and began to amble northwards across the square. It came to him that he knew that silhouette, knew it only too well. It was Gaius Asinius Gallus.

Tiberius didn't stop to think; his body moved of its own accord, trailing Gallus down the Via Sacra. Gallus looked back only once, his gaze briefly assessing the man behind and dismissing him immediately as a nobody. Tiberius could have smiled. Saturn had a sharp sense of humor and more purpose than he was given credit for.

There were still plenty of people around, for the festivities would continue through the night. But he didn't need secrecy now; it was Tiberius who always had to act in secret. Tiberius Caesar could not punish Gaius Asinius Gallus, senator, ex-consul, ex-governor of Asia, without upsetting the maddeningly delicate political balance of Rome. If he had someone killed at will all the work he had done to convince the Senate to actually participate in the messy work of governing would vanish like smoke as the Senators retreated into passivity, cowering before the specter of an all-powerful, domineering and arbitrary ruler. But the slave named Epidicus—he was no one, and so free to do anything, especially on Saturnalia of all nights. But tempted as Tiberius was to simply pick up a stray rock off the street and bash Gallus' head in with it, the man's purposeful stride piqued his interest enough to stay his hand. He dropped back and followed from a greater distance, letting Gallus feel safe and anonymous.

Gallus took his time, lingering in the Forum. He made his way to the north end, melting into the back of a small crowd watching a fire eater performing before the Temple of Saturn. A woman in a long mantle greeted him with a nod. In the dancing light of the fire eater's torches, Tiberius could see that she wore a mask made of leaves, like a dryad. She and Gallus leaned in close and exchanged words under the cover of the crowd's _ooohs_ and _aaahs_. Aside from a brief glance, neither paid any attention when he joined the spectators just behind them.

"I saw him." That was Gallus, speaking in a low murmur.

"How was he?" Tiberius started. The woman's voice was familiar, achingly so. He tried to scrutinize her more closely from the corner of his eye, but her costume and the flickering light made it difficult. She was tall and perhaps of middle years, with a matron's hairstyle. The curve of her mouth shot a bolt of pain through his heart. After all the unfathomable events of that night, were shades returning from the underworld as well? But that was all wrong. Saturn had no power over the dead.

"Strange," Gallus whispered. "Stranger than I've ever seen him. He didn't seem to know me. He—smiled at me as if I were a pleasant acquaintance. Perhaps age is softening him up. Or all the good will of the festival."

Agrippina snorted. "Nothing can soften Tiberius. If he acted cordial, he meant to deceive you. Or he was too ashamed to maltreat you in front of the guests."

"No, my dear, it was stranger than that... He was like a different person. I asked him for his consent, and he gave it."

"You _what_? So soon? He did?"

"On the spot. No questions asked. He even put it down for me in writing, with congratulations."

"I can't believe it!"

"He did. And whatever else anyone may say about him, he's always been a poor and reluctant liar. I'm sure he meant it."

"Nonsense. You go easy on him because you still feel guilty."

"No, I don't ... you don't think what you said during the sacrifice could have—come true?"

"What, that things would be so much easier if only he were a different man? I've never had a god answer prayers before, Gallus, much less idle wishes."

"But he was _like_ a different man. Livia Augusta noticed it too, I'd gamble on it."

The voices dropped to whispers too soft for Tiberius to hear. He stood rooted to the earth, holding his breath. Damn them. Damn Gallus for his presumption and Epidicus for playing at being emperor and Saturn for double-dealing. What had Tiberius Caesar given his consent to? He strained to hear more even as he hoped they had nothing worse to say.

"... must get _rid_ of him as soon as possible. He's even worse than a king, he's a—sneaking, low-born despot, pulling all the strings from behind the shield of the princeps."

"We'll be in a stronger position now, Sejanus will have to be more careful..."

More whispers and finally, silence. The crowd let out an awed gasp as the fire eater blew a fountain of flame six feet high. It billowed into a shape everyone recognized: a fiery eagle of Rome that swooped low over the watchers. Even the performer seemed amazed at his prowess, dropping his extinguished torches and fleeing with half the onlookers. When Tiberius looked for the conspirators, Gallus had gone, but he saw the woman's mantle vanishing around the corner of the Temple of Saturn. He leaped in pursuit, more positive than ever that he knew her, and if people could bleed Falernian wine and eagles hatch from flames on this night, why could not _she_ be here, alive again? He caught up, grasped at her arm, spun her around to face him, remembering only at that moment that he did not look like himself. But when she saw him her eyes widened and she exclaimed—

"Tiberius Claudius Nero!"

***

It was the wrong Agrippina. Now that she faced him he saw it immediately, mask or no. This was not a shade—of course it was not—it was Agrippina Major, Germanicus' widow, who had spent the years since her husband's death whispering poison about Tiberius Caesar into her children's ears.

She had always reminded him strongly of his own Vipsania. They were half-sisters, both daughters of Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, and both blessed with a lovely oval face, big, widely-spaced eyes, and tall stature. It was Agrippina's voice, above all, low and melodious, that reminded him so strongly of her sister that he had sometimes expected to turn around and find Vipsania laughing at his banquets, back when Agrippina still attended them. It was the voice that had misled him tonight. In manner, though, they were rather different. Vipsania had been sweet and reserved; Agrippina was the woman who had followed her husband on his army assignments and harangued his soldiers into action with her speeches. And she had hated him for years now, blaming him for Germanicus' death even if she didn't outright accuse him of murder—as others did.

"Tiberius!" The sight of him seemed to have robbed her of other words, and there was a note of panic in her voice.

He felt hardly less astonished. "You know me?"

She tensed as if to flee, but neither etiquette nor courage would allow such a retreat. "Of course I know you, Tiberius Julius Caesar Augustus." She removed her dryad mask and inclined her head stiffly.

The words disconcerted him more than anything else that had happened that night. Why could she alone see who he really was? He still felt the same, strong as a young man and free of the aches of old age he had grown so used to over the years. No one else had recognized him; to others he must still appear as Epidicus.

Perhaps her words were true in more than their literal sense. Misgiving tightened his throat. He did not want to be whoever it was Agrippina thought she knew. If this was an omen, he refused to believe its meaning could be so straightforward.

She raised her chin. "You heard."

"Much that I did not like, Agrippina. Though Gallus' squawkings always irritate."

"None of it was new to you," she said coolly. "We may have spoken freely, but you yourself consented to the marriage, so you can hardly object to us talking about it. As for Sejanus, well, it's no secret that not everyone cares for him. And he's no divus Augustus, you'd have to be mad to think the _lex maiestas_ applies to a praetorian prefect."

Marriage, of course, Gallus had said the false Tiberius had given his consent to... how obvious it was. A marriage between Gallus and Agrippina. Outwardly harmless, even logical, but as dangerous and effective a power play as an assassination attempt. What clever snakes they were.

Yet somehow what bothered him most was that it felt exactly as if Gallus were stealing Vipsania from him a second time. Of course it was the children who were Gallus' true goal. When the choice was between a probable bastard, a stuttering idiot and Germanicus and Agrippina's healthy, handsome, and popular sons, no one could fail to see how the dice would fall. If Gallus married Agrippina he would effectively control the most likely line of succession. That was why he wanted her; it had nothing to do with Vipsania. Still it was intolerable, hurtful to an extent that surprised him.

"Of course I don't consent!" Tiberius snapped. "You must think me simple. If you insist on plotting against me, at least use a little more subtlety."

The crimson spots on her cheeks were the only sign that she was angry. He recalled that Vipsania had looked just the same on the few occasions when they argued. "You _already_ consented. In writing," Agrippina said. She thought him arbitrary and hypocritical, he was sure, and she would say as much to the public, with whatever idiotic note Epidicus had written her as proof. Tiberius Caesar was a tyrant and a usurper, neither a protector of the Republic nor the guardian of Augustus' family that he ought to be. And by Augustus' family, she meant hers, of course.

Whatever they thought, it wasn't too late. He could never let her marry again, never take the chance of letting Germanicus' children fall under anyone else's influence. In fact, after what he'd heard that night, it seemed he'd been lax in letting them stay with their mother in the first place. Technically, Claudius the Stutterer was their _paterfamilias_ , but Claudius was in no position to offer any effective objections.

"You have gone a step too far, Agrippina," he said. "Plotting with Gallus—that is too far. Things cannot be the same after this."

She frowned. "What do you mean? And what exactly do you accuse us of plotting? It's no crime to marry."

"It's a crime to seek to overthrow the princeps!"

She protested, but he could see that she was afraid. As he listened to her try to form excuses, all the aches and pains of the day returned, settling down on him like a leaden cloak. He felt old again, and more bitter than ever.

"Don't bother," he interrupted. "Go home and see to your children, Agrippina. I will send for you when I've decided how to proceed."

She had always hated taking orders, the peculiar woman. But after a momentary struggle, she bowed her head and obeyed. He followed her with his eyes as she disappeared up the Clivus Victoriae in the graying twilight. She had an almost military gait, straight-backed with crisp little steps and always that stubborn set to her chin. If only she had been a little more like Vipsania... but she hated him, was determined to destroy him. He could not leave her to her own devices without risking his position and the stability of Rome.

The cloudless dawn broke as he climbed the Palatine some time later. Slaves and guards sprang into action when he entered the Domus Tiberiana, scurrying and whispering. The enchantment, it seemed, had been a thing of the night only; the fear and diffidence on every face could only be a response to the presence of the princeps. He was again Tiberius Julius Caesar Augustus.

In his tablinum, he found his mother, Livia Augusta, reading the half-finished oration he'd left lying on the desk. Age had not dimmed her eyesight or her keen sense of rhetoric, and she often read through his speeches before he gave them.

"Eventful night?" she asked as he sat down. Like everything else about her, the question was less innocent than it appeared. He would not be surprised if she knew everything, somehow. But he was ashamed to tell her, not for fear she wouldn't believe him—Livia was no skeptic when it came to the gods—but because he couldn't stomach telling her he'd been _happy_ to be an idle festival-goer, a _slave_ , rather than the ruler of Rome and the world. To Livia, implacable guardian of the Claudian honor, that would be like admitting he liked being buggered.

"A plot has been discovered," he said instead, not specifying by whom. Let her think Sejanus had done the dirty work. It was entirely possible Sejanus _had_ found out by now; he hadn't seen his prefect since before the feast, after all.

"What are you doing about it?" Livia said, straight to the point.

He took a fresh sheet of parchment, and wrote several orders to various people.

"Agrippina Major and Gaius Asinius Gallus must be watched, together and separately. Sejanus can see to it. Agrippina is forbidden from seeing her sons Nero Caesar and Drusus Caesar, who will be enrolled in the army and sent somewhere with considerable opportunity for glory and no time to visit their mother."

Livia listened without comment. He still found it difficult—and sometimes uncomfortable—to try to understand his mother. She had a subtle mind and an unswerving will, where he was the opposite: straightforward in thought but always persuadable when it came time to make a decision. Once when they were young his brother Drusus had said that the _real_ triumvirate was Augustus, Agrippa, and Livia, and Tiberius had thought it true even as he laughed. Livia had survived the other two; by all rights _she_ should be princeps. He wondered if Rome would be better off with her in charge. He wondered if she thought so.

"I am leaving Rome after the New Year," he continued, "for Capreae. I'm taking my grandson and little Gaius Caligula with me and starting their training under my supervision."

She nodded along in agreement. "Yes, they're the right age. Still young enough to learn. Will you make them joint heirs?"

"Probably. Do you object?"

"You know I like Tiberius Gemellus, but I fear the Caligula boy will run rough-shod over him. He's much stronger willed."

"Perhaps." Privately, Tiberius didn't find that a problem. Being circumspect in the exercise of power had served him poorly; his successor, he determined, must be a stronger man. Not a princeps, but a dominus, someone unafraid to rule, someone who didn't feel compelled to tiptoe around the Senate and its delicate sensibilities. That was how he meant to train his heir, and let him be strong enough to overcome his rivals.Tiberius Gemellus and Gaius Caligula might be young, but that only meant they had time to grow into the role, and if necessary, compete with each other for it.

But he could not do it here in Rome. His enemies were already too entrenched and he was too weary to uproot them. He had a feeling the measures necessary to do so would be much more wearying. No matter; he had younger and—to himself, he could admit it—sterner men to do that work for him. Men like that were the future; the next princeps would be one of them. Better a strong man to hold Rome together than a modest one to let it dissolve into squabbling and back-stabbing. And if he could not think of the last vestiges of the Republic dying without a pang, why, that only meant that he was one of the older breed of men, the final representative of an obsolete ethos.

He asked his mother to have Lucius Aelius Sejanus and his head lictor called, and while she was gone, wrote out a mandate making the prefect his official second-in-command with the authority to rule Rome in his absence. Livia wouldn't like that, he knew, but Tiberius wanted someone he knew and trusted. His mother was too powerful in her own right, too ambitious, and too myopic in her quest for family honor. Best of all, he knew first-hand that Gallus and Agrippina and, by extension, their faction already feared Sejanus. There wasn't a better watchdog in all of Rome.

He hesitated before writing out the final decree, but it had to be done. An order for the death of the slave Epidicus, officially for stealing wine from the princeps' table. He would not share the truth of last night with anyone, for even the thought of what malicious tongues would do with that story made his jaw clench.

So with a few scribbled words he put an end to the lingering pretense of republicanism. Two pairs of eyes watched the ink dry: the weary, sleepless ones of Tiberius Caesar and the painted ones of the bust of deified Augustus, unsmiling, neither approving nor condemning.

He breathed out, long and slow, and put down the pen; he could almost feel the sunlight of Capreae warming his bones already. At last, a reward for all his labors. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sources: Suetonius' _Lives of the Caesars_ , Tacitus' _Annals_ , Robin Seager's _Tiberius_ and especially David Shotter's _Tiberius Caesar_.


End file.
